


Crash & Burn

by GalaxyThreads



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Apocalypse, Co-Dependency, Croatoan Virus (Supernatural), Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester Use Their Words, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Family, Gen, Hell Trauma, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Jessica Moore Lives, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Mental Health Issues, Minor Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Jessica Moore, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Siblings, Protectiveness, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Season/Series 05, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24879559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyThreads/pseuds/GalaxyThreads
Summary: Jess wakes up beside her grave with no idea how she got there, only knowing one thing: she has to find Sam. (No slash, no smut)
Relationships: Castiel & Jessica Moore, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore & Dean Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Comments: 55
Kudos: 143





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just watched 90% of SPN in a few weeks, things blurred. If details are off, please comment me so I can correct them. :)
> 
> Warnings: Canon typical violence, PTSD, possible self-harm. More warnings will be posted at the top of chapters. No slash, no smut, no non-con, no incest. Language is all K.
> 
> Set: In season 5, after Sam learn's he's Lucifer's vessel, but before he and Dean re-unite.
> 
> Parings: Sam/Jess, Lisa/Dean
> 
> Everyone please stay safe and healthy! I hope you enjoy! :)
> 
> For your information, this story is cross-posted on fanfiction.net under the pennname of "LodestarJumper." 
> 
> Just a personal note, if you could refrain from using cussing/strong language if you comment (no offense to how you speak! Promise! =) It just makes me uncomfortable) I would greatly appreciate that. ;)

* * *

_"You may not rest now, there are monsters nearby."_

_-_ Minecraft

* * *

_Tired, so, so tired..._

Jess breathes, and isn't sure if she wants to. It's the type of breath that hurts as it goes down, the aching scrape of air against the throat before it lingers in the lungs like a heavy weight and is expelled with an exhausted push of her muscles. Her body feels like it's simultaneously on fire and freezing; too hot, too cold—too everything. She can feel the grime of dirt beneath her, a rock digging into her shoulders and the discomfort of something pinched by her neck.

She doesn't know where she is.

How she is.

What this is.

_Tired..._

Something is pressing at her, though, demanding for her time and her attention, even though Jess just wants to go back to sleep. She doesn't know what woke her. Maybe she's dying. That could be why she hurts so much. She can't hear the sounds of a hospital—the sounds of anything, really. It's so quiet, why is it so quiet?

She smells grass, and the faint whiff of flowers, a rotting, awful smell that makes her want to vomit along with the strong thread of perfume that her mom bought her last year that she hated. It was supposed to be a peach lavender. She doesn't know why that detail sticks out so much to her. For some reason, the scent of this is a relief, as if she'd been exposed to a foul odor before this, and the disgusting perfume is a mercy.

_Let me sleep._

Her face scrunches, and she shifts some a low moan slipping through her chapped lips as her body protests. Her lips, they're dry. Her throat is dry. She needs water. _Now._

Jess hisses, her breath hitching somewhat as she pushes down into the dirt, her fingers tangling into the soft grass. The sensation hurts, as if touch is something she's been deprived for a long time. Jess can't get her heavy eyelids to part, but she does manage to lift her hand weakly. It flops across her stomach.

A name pushes at the tip of her tongue, hoarse and tired. "S-Sam," she breathes.

There is no answer. Nothing but the empty.

_Sleep..._

" _Sam,"_ her voice cracks, and she reaches out again, searching for him in the dark. Maybe she's just in bed and this is all some sort of odd dream. But she can't feel him. He's gone. Where would he—?

Jess coughs suddenly, harsh and grating, and her eyes tear open as she's shoved upwards by instinct in an effort to _breathe._ The word spins, blurring and showing multiple images of itself as she strains to make out what the colors mean.

_Please, let me sleep._

Gray. A lot of gray. Grass. A few trees. It's night, but close to dawn. There's dirt all around her, and a heaping pile off to her left along with what looks like a coffin; actually, that probably _is_ a coffin—

Jess stops. Her breathing stops, eyes following, and her heart skips a beat.

She's in a graveyard. _Why is she in a graveyard!?_ How did she get here? The last thing she remembers was...her mind draws blank for a moment. She and Sam were celebrating, and she had to drag him out to the Halloween party because he hates loud crowds and alcohol when he's not somewhere he deems as safe and—no that's not right. Sam's brother—Dean. He broke into their apartment. He flirted with her. He took Sam to find their father.

He was going to be back by Monday.

And then she…

Her stomach twists and she heaves, jerking to the side as she vomits sharply. The smell of burning flesh tingles the edge of her nose for a moment, her senses overwhelmed by a memory she can't quite grasp. There was heat. And Sam staring up— _up?—_ at her, horrified.

Then nothing.

And she's in a graveyard, in the middle of who-knows-where. She has no idea where she is and she thinks that someone is trying to bury her alive. There's an open grave off to her right. Then the coffin. And— _oh gosh, no—_ she can't see Sam. She can't...she has no idea where she is. _What if someone took her?_

She needs to—her parents. They'll kill her. Sam will kill who took her. She needs to find a phone. And water. And call the police so they can tell her where she is and how to get home. She—she should leave. She can't stay here in case her captor comes back and determines to finish the job that they started. She's not going to do that to her family. To herself. She's not going to be buried alive.

_Buried alive—_

_No._ Don't go there. Keep a calm head.

Jess exhales sharply, stiff, and slowly pulls her aching body upright. She feels like she's been sleeping for a long time, her muscles cramped and blood pooled. She wobbles when she gets up, and realizes with a horrified jolt that she's wearing her nightgown, _in the middle of a graveyard._

Well. That explains the cold at least.

Jess licks her lips and blinks hazily as the world slowly comes into focus. She looks behind her, where she was laying. It's close to the edge of the grave, but not so close that she could have rolled into it if she jerked hard enough. She wraps her arms around herself, sickened. Someone was going to kill her. Maybe they thought she was already dead…

Phone. She needs...in desperation, but not hope, Jess pats down her pockets. Nothing, as expected. Nothing except—she winces when she slaps some sort of hard object resting around her neck. It's on a long chain, but tucked underneath her white dress. She didn't even realize that she was wearing something because it didn't jostle.

Carefully, as if it's fragile, she untangles a chain to reveal a ring. She squints at it, but doesn't recognize it. It seems new. An engagement ring.

When did she—? How did she get this?

Did _Sam…?_

Jess exhales sharply and moves towards the grave, suddenly realizing there's a headstone. She didn't...oh, man, if she desecrated someone's grave unintentionally by someone trying to bury her on top of them…Jess drops the ring and rubs her hands against her arms, offering a mental apology to the poor sod she's disturbed and squints in the bad lighting to make out the name.

All mental capacity stops.

There, engraved into the stone is three words that break everything. That send her tumbling back into a night of terror, and the scent of her blood burning. Sam's horrified face as he looks up at her, her blood dripping onto his face, but neither of them able to make a word as their eyes meet. Then the _smell—_

Jessica Lee Moore.

Her.

_This is her grave._

000o000

She leaves the graveyard, her head reeling. She walks along the road in bare feet and fighting a bitter chill as she pleads with anyone listening above to send help. She needs to find Sam. She needs to make sure he's okay. The fire—did he...did he get _out?_ The thought horrifies her. Both of them burning together, less than six feet apart.

She can't—her heart twists painfully in her chest at the thought of him dead.

_What would I do without you?_

_Crash and burn._

Their mantra suddenly seems a lot less beautiful and more horrifying. Burning. She'd hoped for a death that didn't involve her being stuck to the ceiling and bleeding out while Sam had to watch, and maybe join her.

Even if he _did_ walk away, he had to bury her. He had to move on, and that's almost worse. Being dead is the easy part. It's living that hurts.

The graveyard she came from isn't too far from the city, but the sun is still peaking over the horizon when she gets there. She manages to hobble to the nearest Wendy's—the only store that seems to be open—and shove the door open, silently praying that they'll give her water and a phone call. Maybe the date.

_She was dead._

_How is she—?_

An employee, a redheaded woman with a black baseball cap shoved ontop of the moppy curls, with a nametag reading NATASHA glances up at her from the counter. She looks like she's been there a while, tired eyes glazed over with boredom. One of her co-workers in the back is waiting at drive through while a few others meander behind the closed doors. Jess has been where they are—her first job was fast food.

(She hated it.)

"Please," her voice is dry and hoarse, breaking. "I don't know...I don't…" she coughs, and the Natasha's eyes widen somewhat with alarm when the hand Jess pulls away from her mouth is spotted with blood.

Jess grimaces.

"What the!?" Natasha exclaims. "You need a doctor. Should I call 911!?"

Probably.

But she needs to check on Sam first. Her blood fist clenches around the ring. She doesn't know where it came from, but if she was dead, she has a pretty good idea. Sam must have...put in...in her coffin. When she...Jess cuts at the train of thought. No. Not going there. Not now. She can try and figure out the logistics of this later. Right now...right now she needs...

"Water." Jess persists. "Do you have any…?"

Natasha stands there for a moment, eyes uncomprehending before she nods shakily and moves towards the closed door. It laps shut behind her, and Jess watches the teen frantically explain, finger jotting out towards Jess like she's done something wrong. Jess doesn't care. She slumps against the counter, and realizes for the first time that she's covered in dirt, moss, and some blood.

Oh, gross.

The door opens again, and out comes a different person, a man—PETER—holding a glass of water. The manager, she's guessing. He's holding a waterbottle. He offers it to her with a murmured word she doesn't understand, and she takes it, twisting off the cap with more effort than she cares to say and drinks from it happily. The cool rush clears some of the fuzziness on the edges of her thoughts.

Jess forces herself to stop before she throws up, pulling it away and setting it down. The manager eyes her for a long moment, as if trying to find ulterior motives.

"Do you need us to call an ambulance?"

Jess hesitates. She...she feels fine, physically. A little fatigued, but not like she's going to faint. "No," she says, her voice a little clearer than it was before. She shoves up from the counter so she doesn't seem as weak. "Where am I? What's the date?" At the man's raised eyebrows, she adds, "I don't...I woke up here, and I don't know how. I think...I might have been taken."

What else is she supposed to say? _I was_ dead l _ess than an hour ago, but here I am in the flesh, don't panic?_

Peter's expression softens somewhat at that. "Alright. Let me call the police. We'll get you figured out, girl."

"Jess." She offers. She doesn't add her last name after a second of hesitation, biting on her tongue. The police will find her and see her death certificate, and that will cause a mess. How is she supposed to find Sam if she's being poked and prodded because _they buried her,_ and she's walking again?

Jess grips the ring harder, trying to draw comfort from it.

"Jess," Peter repeats. He nods, and gestures for her to sit. Jess does so after a hesitation, and Peter frowns somewhat before he says, "You're in Bosie. Idaho. It's November twenty-second."

November. Not great, but not awful. Dean came for Sam in October.

Jess bites harder on the inside of her lip when she asks, "What year?"

"What year—?" the man repeats, somewhat incredulous, before he stares at her. "How long have you been gone, girl?"

"I...don't know." She admits. "Please."

"2009."

Jess's feels her face fall. 2005. She died in 2005. It's been _four years._ A soft swear escapes her, and she grips the waterbottle so tightly it crinkles beneath her dirtied fingertips. The man watches her expression carefully, and she forces herself to give a slight smile.

"Can I borrow a phone?"

But it's meaningless. Not that she's surprised. The phone number she remembers as Sam's has been disconnected. It's been four years. It's only expected. Still, though, Jess slips into the bathroom of the small Wendy's, grips the ring tightly in between her fingers and weeps.

She's gone by the time the police Peter called for her arrive.

000o000

She doesn't even know how to address her death. She wants to call her mom, to explain, to hear her voice and ask in on the cows and see if they'd sold that stupid goat yet. But the thought of having to sit her mom and stepfather down and explain that they buried her, but she's back now for the time being just makes her ache inside. She doesn't know if this is permanent and she doesn't want to get her hopes up.

Part of her is convinced that her heart is just going to give out and she'll collapse to the floor.

 _Or fling to the ceiling,_ a nasty part of her mind whispers, Sam's eyes flickering through her mind for a moment. _Crash and—_

Jess takes clothes from the homeless shelter and bundles up as best she can. Her family came from humble circumstances, and she knows what it's like to go hungry. It's one of the reasons that Brady shoved her towards Sam in the first place. _Look, you're poor as dirt, he's poor as dirt. You can be scholarship buddies._ It was an awkward meeting, to say the least. Thankfully, Jess has a sense of humor and Sam has a sense of empathy, so it worked in the end.

Jess's hand wraps around the ring.

The food tastes like ash, but it's fuel, and that's all she cares about. Jess uses the public library, trying to catch up on what she missed, and wonders vaguely if Sam ever did find his dad. They never got the chance to talk about it. She made him cookies that night just in case they didn't. John Winchester never struck her as someone that would be easy to get in contact with, not that Sam tried much.

Sam didn't talk about his past much, but she knew about the abandonment. The weeks where he would vanish. How Dean practically raised Sam.

A snide part of her hopes that they didn't find John. For Sam's sake. John deserves to be lost for a little bit. But that's a nasty thought, and she's supposed to be a little more positive, but God help those who endanger her family. Sam was going to be family. They'd talked about marriage.

Her hand remains around the ring. She clenches it like it's her lifeline.

She sleeps in the homeless shelter, keeps her hair tugged back and her face smeared so she looks unappealing and prays that everyone will leave her alone. She should just swallow her pride and contact her parents, but she can't…

She woke up next to her grave. She _burned_ to death. She remembers that. The smell. The feeling. Her sleep is restless, waking up with the taste of ash in her mouth and the sound Sam screaming her name echoing in her ears.

It takes a week before she finally summons up the courage and hesitantly types _Sam Winchester_ into the search bar. Her face pales, then drops, sagging with horror. He has a record. He's wanted by the police. _Assumed deceased._ He's—

No.

He's not dead.

If he was, she'd know. And he's not.

(She has to keep clinging to that, or she'll fall apart. She has to find him, because he means everything. He'll have the answers that she doesn't. An explanation. What pinned her on the ceiling, and left her there to bleed out on her boyfriend then set the fire around her.)

Still. Jess throws up in the bathroom, and pleads with it to not be what it looks like. Her Sam was a good man. He wouldn't...grave desecration. _Murder._ A bank hostage. He was on the FBI's most wanted list. He and Dean. That isn't Sam. Not the Sam that she knew.

 _But maybe he's just not that person anymore,_ a soft part of her mind sighs, almost as if sympathizing, _I mean, think about it Jess—he was always tipping on the edge of crazy. Maybe your death was just the shove._

But Sam was going to be a lawyer. He wanted a dog. He liked cookies with nuts and a weird Russian dressing on salads. He's afraid of clowns. He taught her how to swim. His brother was his best friend. He was gentle, kind and sweet. Shy.

Not a murderer.

 _Well,_ that soft male voice sighs, _I guess people really change, don't they?_

000o000

She wakes with Sam's name on the lips, and the light of the fire burned into her eyelids. She forces herself up and stumbles from the shelter out into the snow, wrapping her arms close around her chest. There are tears sliding down her cheeks and she squeezes her eyes shut, breathing out heavily.

She wants to go home. Not to her apartment in Palo Alto. Not to her parents' house. Home is a person now. His name is Sam Winchester. And he's gone.

He's a criminal.

Even if she does find him, which isn't likely, he won't be the same man that she left.

She grips the ring again, her heart aching.

Jess's restless feet wander, and she's miserable and wet by the time she realizes that she's standing in front of her childhood home. The single-story ugly house with its peeling paint and the pasture out back. None of the animals are out tonight, but she can smell them. There's a camper out front, which is new and a surprise, given her stepfather's antipathy for camping.

Jess bites on the inside of her cheek, rocking back and forth on her heels.

_Should she…?_

What if it's not even the Moores that live here anymore, and some random family instead? It's been four years. They might have...but they brought her body back to Idaho, and it seems a little strange that they'd just dump her here to leave her. But they could visit. Not often, but sometimes. Her parents were never really the sentimental type like that.

_Oh for Pete's sake, Jessica._

Jess sighs and grits her teeth, then walks up to the porch. It must be the middle of the night, but she raps on the door away, soaking and wet, hurting and alone. The bite of the October air is starting to get to her.

The door hesitantly opens, and her stepfather stands in front of the screen door for a long moment. "Yes?" he asks, voice gruff and hard, but _his,_ and Jess's eyes blur at the familiarity of it. Her stepfather stares at her for a long moment, expectant. He doesn't recognize her. She's not hurt. She's _not._ It's dark and it's late; and beyond that—when people die, you stop looking for them everywhere.

Jess chokes out a single word: "Dad?"

Her stepfather freezes. " _Jessica?"_ then the screendoor is opened fully and she stares at her stepfather. His hairline has receded further back than it was, and he's lost a little weight from the last time she saw him. The glasses are new, but the beard is not. He's dressed in a loose T-shirt with shorts and he's holding a flask of some sort.

"Jess, are you really…"

"Dad," Jess repeats, and starts to move forward to hug him or just _touch_ him, but the flask comes up and water smacks against her face. Jess sputters, blinking rapidly with confusion and wipes the water away, looking up at him harshly. " _What the—!?"_

"Hold this." Her stepfather shoves a silver pocket knife into her hands before she can protest, and Jessica stares up at him with confusion, wondering for a long moment if he's lost his mind. Four years. And—he—

_What?_

There's a salt in the doorframe, hidden beneath a doormat, but not well enough. She doesn't understand.

Her stepfather stops and stares at her as if seeing her through a new light. His face breaks, twitching with a parental pain she doesn't understand. He reaches a shaking hand out and gently cups the side of her face as if she's something precious. Jess feels herself cracking, the walls she's built up to survive the last ten days breaking away.

"Oh, Jess," her stepfather says and reaches forward to embrace her.

Soaking, shivering, and wet, Jess leans into it and allows herself to cry. Her stepfather shudders and pulls her into the house, letting the screendoor lap and shuts the front door firmly. It smells faintly of that awful perfume again, and a type of herb she doesn't recognize.

Jess is all but shoved down onto the couch as her stepfather goes for her mom, and Jess sits and tries to find similarities to what she remembers, instead of focusing on all the changes. There's a lot of change. The coffee table they'd had since she was six is missing, the bookcase over the fireplace—and her eyes jump over that desperately, the smell of charred skin haunting her—is replaced and white instead of black.

Jess's mom steps into the room, and Jess looks up at her with a tired smile. Her stepfather is crying, but her mom has never been a weeper. Between her parents, her mom kills the spiders. She remembers telling that to Sam once, and seeing the incredulous expression he gave her at that, as if it didn't explain everything he needed to know about her parents. She looks Jess up and down for a long moment before her eyes soften and she takes a place beside Jess and wraps an arm around her shoulders.

Her mom's blonde hair has a little more gray, and she seems somehow smaller. Her hands are familiar, the same ones that have held her all her life.

They sit for a long minute, taking it in, breathing.

Then her mom asks, "Jess, darlin', don't get me wrong—I'm thrilled you're here and breathin', baby, but _how?"_

Jess shakes her head, still crying, still confused, and still tired. "I don't know. I just...I don't…"

She grips the ring.

"Sam said you burned on the ceilin'," the stepfather adds, softer. Jess tries not to flinch at her boyfriend's name, but she does. _Killer._ "He'd called to let us know he killed what did it, though, a few years back. Haven't heard from 'im in a while now. Well, after the FBI he—"

Her mom sends him a sharp look, and he snaps his mouth shut.

"He what?" Jess's brow furrows with confusion. "I don't...he knows what did...what killed me?" _What strapped me to the ceiling and pinned me like a butterfly. What gutted open my stomach only after Sam had laid down, and let me bleed all over him. What caused the horror to burn in his eyes. To make those drops fall. That set the fire that consumed me, and the smell of the burning flesh—_

Her stepfather closes his eyes for a long moment, then sighs and reaches forward to take her hand. "Jess, honey, I think we need to talk."

000o000

Demon. A demon killed her. Because demons are real, and ghosts, vampires, werewolves—the whole package. Everything. And her boyfriend and his brother _hunt_ them. They protect everyone from the threat so people can go on in ignorance.

She was killed, burned alive.

And Sam sat her parents down and said that they deserved to know what actually happened. That if he couldn't tell _her,_ that he'd tell them—just in case it wasn't after him, but after the Moores instead. It wasn't. Her father splashed holy water in her face, and made her hold the silver.

Because _shapeshifters_ exist, too.

Her head is spinning, but it makes a sick sort of sense. That piece of Sam that never quite clicked. That reminded her of a war-returned soldier. The guns he kept hidden in the apartment that she pretended she didn't know about. The flinching, the jerking from loud noises, how he hid underneath blankets for holidays that involved fireworks, and stilled any time she mentioned she was suddenly cold in the middle of summer.

Everything.

Her boyfriend is a hero.

Not a murderer.

( _Dad went on a hunting trip, and he hasn't been home in a few days._

_Jess, will you excuse us? )_

And Jessica Lee Moore decides, sitting in her parent's living room, that she is going to _flay_ that boy alive without any regrets for not telling her any of this.

000o000

Jess can feel ten days—four years—worth of grime wash away as she stands under the hot water of her parent's bathroom. She shampoos her hair five or six times, trying to get the odd oily feeling to go away and lets the conditioner sit in her hair as she scrubs down her skin with almost an entire bar of soap.

It doesn't really help. She still feels a little itchy and kind of _stretched,_ but at least she doesn't smell. Or look like a psychopath who hasn't slept in ten years.

Jess stares at her face for a long time, trying to find a difference. Her lips are both patchy and flushed, her eyes shadowed. Her face is more gaunt than she remembers and she looks like she caught the plague and barely pulled through. A part of her wonders if that's because of the last ten days or the fact that two weeks ago she was in a coffin.

Not that it really matters.

She still looks a little like death, origin aside. It's little wonder that her stepfather didn't recognize her until after she spoke.

Jess returns to the kitchen and eats everything that her mom puts down in front of her. She doesn't really taste it, but it oddly reminds her of when she caught a bad cold when she and Sam were living together. Sam cooked her meals for those few days. He was an awful cook when they started dating, but she'd been teaching him. Jess had always thought that if law school didn't work, she'd go into baking.

But despite her guidance, Sam still gave her food poisoning, which didn't help at the time, but they laughed about later.

Her mom and stepfather stare at her as if blinking will make her vanish, but Jess has decided that whatever happened wasn't some sort of fluke. Not an accident. Permanent. And she doesn't really know what she thinks about that. She tries not to. Think about it, that is, because it just makes her sweaty and panic, neither of which is helpful.

With dinner cleaned up and her parents questions aside, Jess finally addresses the unspoken elephant in the room. Slumping somewhat in the chair, propping her leg up on the seat, she looks at her stepfather. Her mom is in the kitchen, finishing up the dishes she'd insisted she could take care of herself. Jess only thinks that because Jess is too exhausted to move from the seat, and both her parents want to keep at least one set of eyes on her.

She keeps her words even, careful. She was training to be a lawyer. She knows how to flatten out her tone. "Where is Sam now?"

Her non-murderous boyfriend who hunts monsters and demons. _Family business,_ her mom had said Sam had described it as. The business that had been slapped back onto the table when she died. Almost as if when push came to shove, her death was the needed shove. Sam had come home. They'd locked eyes.

Then she'd burned.

Jess shakes her head to clear away the cobwebs. Her stepfather scrapes a finger along the tabletop with the edge of his nail. The silence makes her narrow her eyes. Jess leans forward, resting a palm flat against the circular, dark wooden table. " _Dad_."

"Honey," her mom, from across the room, says tiredly. She's moved again, frozen initially when the question came out. There's a sigh before the water sloshes, the cup disappearing beneath the bubbles. Her stepfather twists around to look back at her mom, and they seem to exchange an entire conversation before her stepfather looks back at her.

"Jess…"

"You don't know." Jess says, flat. The tips of her fingers grind into the table. Her grandfather made this table for her mom's first wedding, but it suddenly seems far less sacred than it was when she was five.

"No," her stepfather admits. "Haven't heard from 'im in...a while. Couple months. And he never tells us where 'e is. Just checks in."

Jess rubs her forehead with her other hand, still pushing against the table, grinding beneath the worn varnish. "Do you have a number I can call?"

Her mom flinches.

Jess slides her eyes up.

Her mom cleans the plate four times before she meets the heavy gaze. "Jessica," she murmurs, "he got you _killed._ Are you really sure that contacting him is the best idea? What if…?" she doesn't finish the thought. She doesn't need to, her line of thought is pretty obvious.

Jess's jaw hardens. A part of her quietly agrees, but the louder, violent streak that has pushed her through the last ten days defenestrates this idea promptly. "Mom," she says, and is suddenly struck with the memory of trying to convince her mom to let her ride the horses when she was six. "Sam is the only one who will be able to know why I'm...here. If what you say about his job is true, then...he's the one I _should_ be calling."

"But what if he has to kill you again?" her mom whispers.

Jess's gut clenches. The thought had struck her, obviously—things don't just come back to life. Not naturally. And after her parents had explained about Sam...she'd spent the shower wondering if she's going to have to go climb inside her coffin again. What if she's some sort of zombie, but isn't aware of it? Lucidity seems like a weird trait to have for the undead, but Jess doesn't know anything about this.

Nothing but folklore and speculation.

Sam.

Sam kills _ghosts._ He hunts this stuff. With Dean. His brother. That broke into their apartment. She remembers that night vividly. Sam had all but shoved her into the bathroom when he heard something downstairs and went after it. She'd thought it was just paranoia, now she knows that Sam probably thought it was something supernatural of origin.

It also explains the salt. He bought so much salt, but hated salty food. It had always struck her as weird, but she'd only teased him about the half answers she'd give him. _I'm preparing for disaster,_ one of them had been. He'd said it so seriously. Jess though he meant end of the world kind of disaster. He was always so jumpy. Paranoid.

_But hers._

Jess's hand clenches around the ring. She stares at her parents and swallows heavily, "Then he'll kill me."

Her mom's face drops. Her stepfather inhales, ragged. " _Jessica Lee—"_ her mom starts.

"Mom, don't." Jess suddenly feels sixty: old, worn and tired. "I'm supposed to be dead. If Sam decides that's what I need to be, then I'll do that. I'm not going to put other people in danger because I'm some sort of zombie."

They both pale at the word. No one's said it outloud, but it's obvious it's crossed their minds. Zombie makes it seem so trivial though. The word just makes her want to laugh. She doesn't _feel_ any desire to eat brains, but is that even something zombies can pinpoint, or does it just sort of happen? One moment you're standing there, the next you've eaten through a skull?

The thought makes her sick.

Jess doesn't want to laugh anymore. She hasn't really laughed since she crawled her way into consciousness.

"You're not—" her mom starts to protest.

"Mom." Jess says flatly. "I was _dead_ two weeks ago. How else do you explain it?"

"I…" her parents share a helpless look. A part of her aches for them. Their only child was dead, and now she's back, but convinced she might need to die again. It must hurt. But Jess can't spare their feelings over other people.

Even if it means she'll die again.

The smell of burning flesh tingles against her nose. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and waits for it to fade. "Do you have a number or not?" Jess says. She stares them down, and sees their resolve falter.

Despite their reservations, they know she's right. Sam is the only one who might be able to explain what happened. And he's the one that gets to make the call. At least if it means death, Sam will make it quick. No burning.

No locked eyes of horror, and watching her blood drip onto her boyfriend's face. That slight crease his brow did with confusion before those hazel eyes had opened and—

Her stepfather frowns, all lines and hard edges, but gets up to his feet despite Jess's mom's weak " _Donny, don't"_ murmured from the kitchen. He exits and returns with a cell phone, holding it out to her. Jess finally scrapes a line across the tabletop before she reaches out with a pale, shaking hand and takes it from him.

She rises to her feet, whispers a quiet thanks and then retreats to the privacy of the bathroom, other hand clenched around the ring. She closes the door and sits on the edge of the bathtub, swallowing her anxiety and stuffing it into a box. It's something Sam taught her how to do for exams. She had horrible test anxiety. Any time something big would come up she'd spend the hours before hand curled next to the toilet, sick to her stomach.

Now that she's thinking about it, Sam knew a little _too well_ how to deal with panic attacks.

Of course he did. He kills _monsters._ That can't come without baggage.

Her heart aches for him. He carried that weight by himself the entire time she knew him. Beyond some slip-ups, he explained everything cryptically or through lies she can now recognize. That must have been awful. Lonely. She loves that man, but he is an idiot.

Jess presses her lips together and brushes blonde hair away before pushing _call_ on the contact listed for _Sam Winchester._ It's a little weird, because all Jess can think about when she sees that name is the ring clutched in one hand and the fact that _Winchester_ was almost hers. She bites on the inside of her lip and forces out heavy breaths as the ring keeps going.

What if this number isn't accurate anymore?

Her stepfather said that Sam always called _them_ so they'd have an up-to-date contact, but the last call for this number was listed as six months ago. That...it just feels like a long time to have the same number for someone with Sam's lifestyle.

Her stomach clenches, rolling.

She thinks she might be sick.

 _Ring, ring, ring,_ then—" _You've reached Sam Wellish. Leave a message."_

A soft sob escapes her at the voice. Sam. _Sam._ It's barely deeper than she remembers, certainly more exhausted. A lie crafted around the last name, but she doesn't even care at this point. Jess re-dials and squeezes her eyes shut, praying that he'll pick up the stupid phone so she can cry and yell at him. Probably at the same time.

_Samuel Winchester, I swear..._

She pinches the skin next to her ribs, a nervous habit she never quite managed to break, and gets voicemail again. So she calls again. She's on her fifth re-dial when the call is finally picked up and a voice that is certainly _not_ her boyfriend answers with a clipped, "Who is this _?"_

It's deep, heavy, and it takes her a second to place it. If she hadn't heard from him two weeks—four years—ago, she might have not been able to place it at all.

Dean. Sam's brother.

It's close enough.

A ragged breath escapes her, but she pinches the skin harder and forces herself to focus. "Dean," she says his name carefully. It isn't the first time she's said it. Sam talked about him a lot or not at all depending on the month. And how intoxicated he was. She licks her lips, "I need to speak with Sam."

There's a hesitation. Then a wary, "Why? Who is this?"

Jessica releases a little laugh. "You aren't going to believe me."

"Try me."

She squeezes her eyes shut. _Well. Here goes nothing._ "Jess. Jessica. Lee Moore. I dated your brother when he was at Stanford—"

There's the distinct sound of a car screeching along a roadway, and she winces for the sake of Dean's fellow drivers. She gives Dean a moment to get properly pulled over, then says, "Please. Sam might be able to help me. I need to—"

"Do you think this is _funny?"_ Dean's voice is cold. The type of anger that she's only heard people talk about, never experienced herself. Raw and threatening, yet so _calm._ Calm anger is dangerous anger. "Listen you freak, I don't care where, what or who you, but to try and use this ploy on my brother is low, even for your kind—"

Jess pulls the phone back, slightly startled at the animosity.

Then she nearly slaps herself.

Why on _earth_ would Dean think that she'd just walked away from her grave?

"Dean— _Dean—_ " she says sharply.

Dean laughs. Cold and hollow. "I'm not going to let you play Sam like this. We're done." And there—there he is. The protective older brother that Sam used to speak so fondly of. He sounds as if the very _thought_ of her trying to mess with Sam has earned her a death sentence. For some reason, even though she's on the end of his threat, it's oddly comforting. Someone has been taking care of Sam for her.

"Don't hang up!" Jess shakes herself from her thoughts.

"Give me one good reason not to."

"Dean, just—wait a second. I know how insane this sounds, but I can't explain it myself. I...I'm at my parents. They know about...everything with the ghosts and vampires. That stuff." She waits a second, but Dean doesn't say anything. "They did some test...things. Salt. Holy water. Silver. I didn't react to any of them, for whatever that means. I know you only have my word for it, but I swear on my life that I'm actually Jess. Okay?"

No response.

Jess exhales sharply, wondering for a second if Dean already hung up. But no—she can hear him breathing on the other side of the line. Short little things. "Okay." She rubs a hand over her face. "Just...let me explain what I know, then can I talk to Sam?"

"We'll see. Speak."

Sam had always spoken about Dean being _soft._ He seems more like a blade to her. Cutting and sharp, but precise about it.

She bites back tears, clutching the ring tighter. His mistrust and denial hurt, weirdly. A private part of her thinks this is because she'd always wanted to make a good impression on Sam's family. Well. His brother. She'd always wanted to slug John across the face.

"I woke up about ten days ago. Next to my grave. I know I was dead for a few years. I don't know what happened, or why. It just...was, I guess." Oddly, she feels sort of embarrassed explaining this to Dean. She'd rather it was Sam, but maybe it's better this way. "I mean, I know how I...died. I remember that. I just…" she gnaws on her lip for a second, "I wasn't in my coffin or anything. The grave was dug up. There wasn't anyone there, or anything. I was just sort of laying in the dirt…? I don't know for how long, but I got up and wandered for a bit before coming here. Does that mean anything to you?"

Dean is quiet for a long second, then says carefully, "Sam put something in your coffin. What was it?"

Jess clutches at the chain. "A silver ring," she can't get her voice much louder than a whisper. "It's shaped like an ocean wave with jewels at every crest. Inside the inner ring are the words 'crash and burn' _."_

Dean releases a breath like he's been punched. Then, very weakly, he whispers, "Jessica?"

And Jess descends into the tears she'd been holding.

000o000

Talking with Dean is weird. She's heard plenty about him, but they barely exchanged what, two, three? sentences before he and Sam were off to a weekend hunt for their father. (Which, Dean says is dead and offers no further explanation about.) But she can _hear_ the resemblance in their voices. The way that Dean phrases things, the faint lisp of an accent that families develop with enough time around each other.

She has little doubts that this isn't Sam's brother.

Dean asks her a few more questions about the grave, how she's feeling and if she smelled anything weird. Sulfur. Her memories are hazy from that time, but she says that she smelled something awful. She doesn't know if it was sulfur, though.

Dean talks her down from crying, not even awkwardly. As if he's done this a million times. Sam and the panic attacks. _Ah,_ her mind goes, _this is who taught Sam._ And Jess feels the desire to punch John in the face again.

Jess asks about Dean, about Sam, and receives only half answers in response. Finally, Dean says, "I'd rather discuss it in person. I just...need to make sure that you're...y'know."

Jess nods tiredly. "Yeah." And doesn't that say something about her life that she does know? Warily she asks, "Is Sam with you?" Dean is quiet a moment, as if he's considering lying so Jess adds, "Don't."

"No." Dean submits, and she can almost see him drop his shoulders. "Not right now. I'll get him. After. Your folks still in Bosie?"

"Yeah." She says, tired. She rattles off the address, even though she doesn't need to, and Dean hums anyway.

"Okay. I'm about a day away. I should be there by tomorrow night." Dean says. He doesn't say whether or not it will be with Sam, but Jess gets the feeling that it won't. It makes her want to cry again, but she bites it back. She's done so much crying in the last half hour that her eyes feel swollen. Besides, Dean needs to see if it's real before he drags his younger brother into this. Jess gets that. It doesn't make it hurt any less though. "Jessica?" Dean's tone is slightly softer.

"Mm?"

"Get some sleep. You sound like you need it. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

Then Dean hangs up.

000o000

Jess helps on the farm. Chores she'd almost forgotten about. She's a little listless as she milks the cows and collects eggs from the devilish chickens, but it's routine and the busy work keeps her from slipping too far into her head. Her parents still eye her like a ghost, as if this is some sort of crazy dream. Jess almost feels the same, but then her muscles will ache and her head will pound and remind her of the fact that she's very much alive.

Dean arrives after eight PM. He's driving the Impala she's heard so much about and looks battered and worn. His face has lost some of the youth it carried when he was twenty-six. He's only thirty, but the weight in his eyes makes him look decades older.

Jess leaves the house when she hears the car door slam and meets him in the driveway. She sees the not-so-subtle slip of a gun into his hand, but watches his eyes track her across the pavement. Jess lifts up her hands, uncertain what to do or say for a second. As she suspected, Sam isn't here. The Impala is empty.

"Do whatever you need to. I'm not...I think I'm human."

But humans don't _un-die._

Dean's eyebrows raise somewhat and he slips the gun into his waistband with what looks like obvious effort. Then he releases a heavy breath. "I already called your parents. They explained what they did. We're good." He lifts up his hands somewhat, but is obviously still wary.

He looks like he's expecting her to bite him.

He's tall. The thought strikes her suddenly, oddly. Standing next to Sam can make most men look tiny, but Dean is over six feet with ease. Huh. She didn't notice that before. But he did break into their apartment, and her mind was focused on other things then. Dean has more build than Sam. Sam is tall, but lean, which he hides behind layers of clothing and baggy jackets. Sam may have gotten the height, but Dean got the build. He looks like he could take on pretty much anyone and come out unscathed.

Jess feels _tiny._

She swallows her apprehension for a second, reminding herself that this is Dean. Sam's brother. He won't hurt her if she doesn't give him reason to.

He's staring at her, as if waiting for something, and Jess thinks she gets it. After a moment, she carefully lifts her hands up to her neck, letting Dean track her movement. She slides the necklace with the ring off of her neck and holds it out to Dean for inspection. She feels a little naked without it.

Dean takes the clasp and holds it up to his face to look. The light from the porch doesn't offer much to see by, but whatever Dean sees must satisfy him. He hands the necklace back to her and runs a hand over his face, eyes suddenly wet. "Sammy bought that for you. After the fire," he says softly, "the only people who know that he laid it in your closed-coffin is me and him. He, uh, put it on your bones. In the coffin."

Jess flinches slightly, her mouth going tight. Of course she'd known, but...She burned to death. She didn't have a corpse. She had a _skeleton._

Her stomach rolls, and imagines vividly how horrifying that must have been. And why Dean seems to trust the ring more than her. It would have been closed-casket. Sam would have had to open the lid, then close it. And people don't open close-casket coffins. The sight beneath is too horrifying to look at, even for the family. So the only people who would know what rested against her bony sternum would be Sam and Dean.

Not a demon. Not a shapeshifter. Or anything else that her parents rattled off the name for. Just Sam and Dean.

"Oh," Jess manages to get out of her suddenly tight throat. She swallows, and crosses her hands across her chest, pinching the skin again. "I didn't know. That explains why Mom didn't recognize it."

"Yeah," Dean's mouth twitches in a smile, but his eyes are sorrowful. "Yeah, it would."

Jess rocks on her feet for a second before she pushes past the awkwardness and the need for defense, crossing the distance between herself and Sam's brother, and wraps him in a hug. He stiffens, as if for all in the world that he expected, this was on the very bottom of the list. It makes her heart ache for him.

Dean hesitantly wraps his arms around her, barely applying any strength before he grips on desperately. She barely comes up to his shoulder, but Dean rests his head against the top of her's for a second, as if trying to enfold her into him. There's nothing intimate about it. It's just...like getting a hug from a sibling. Not that she's ever had one, but close friends become adopted at some point.

The thought makes her heart twinge. Four years. All her friends think she's in a coffin.

"Sammy's going to be so glad to see you," Dean says, his voice breaking a little. She gets the feeling that Dean isn't someone to show emotion so raw, and feels humbled that he trusts her enough to do it. Or maybe it's just not by choice.

"He better." Jess whispers. "'Cause we're going to kiss and then I'm going to kill him for keeping this from me." Dean laughs in a short burst, the kind of laugh that just escapes you. Jess's lip twitches up. She pulls away with reluctance, and Dean gives her a tired, thin little smile. It's forced, but she appreciates the effort.

Jess releases a heaving breath and wipes at her eyes hastily. Then she wets her lips and meets the intense green eyes again. "What now?"

Dean releases a sigh. "I've already been by the grave. The coffin's been lowered, but the police are hesitant to bury it just yet. They're still looking for your body." He says it with an air of detachment. Jess vaguely wonders if that's easier. "Not that they're going to find it, they're looking for a pile of bones, not a living human. They don't have any leads either. I didn't get EMF, but the officer who found the scene did report a 'rotten egg smell.' I'm thinking maybe a demon. Either of your parents' soul's on a contract by any chance?"

Jess stares at him in horror.

Dean presses his lips together. "Sorry. Um, I'm going to guess no. Don't take this the wrong way, but they just don't strike me as the type."

Jess recovers herself. "To sell their souls to a demon? Yeah, no. My dad can't even kill spiders, Dean. He's not going to sell his _soul._ And not after four years. They adjusted. My mom's not that kind of person. They're just not…" the thought makes her insides crawl. Dean flinches somewhat at the spider comment, but she doesn't know why and it doesn't feel right to pry.

"Awesome." Dean sighs. He sounds exhausted, and looks the part. "Alright. We'll figure this out."

"Before or after we tell Sam?" Jess cuts in.

Dean's face remains impassive, but his fingers give him away. They flex, showing his discomfort. He's an excellent blank face, but this has obviously thrown him. "I'm not sure, Jessica. If we need to...I just don't think it would be a good idea to bring Sam into it."

Jess stares at him.

And when he doesn't say anything, just looking a little confused, she pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. "Dean," she says his name slowly. "That is just... _stupid._ No," she lifts up a hand when he opens his mouth to protest. "Listen. I get it. You want to protect him, even from pain like this. But if I have to die, I want to do it knowing that I saw him again. Sam will be furious with you if you kill me and he didn't get the chance to say goodbye. And he _will_ find out. Sam's not an idiot."

Dean's face crumples. "I know."

Jess lifts a hand up to gently touch his arm. "Dean."

He shuts his eyes for a long moment, obviously at war, then reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a flip phone. Then, surprisingly, he holds it out to her. "He's one on speed dial. He's...not going to want to talk to me. You might need to call a few times."

A phone call suddenly feels insufficient.

But Jess will take what she can. She shoves the phone back into his hand. "No. You explain and confirm. He'll just yell at me for being some sort of demon if I try to go at it first."

Dean's head tilts in agreement and he sighs before pressing one and lifting up the phone. Sam picks up after three rings. Dean's lips press together and he stares at her before saying, "Hey, Sammy," in a voice that's too even.

She doesn't hear what's said on the other end, but Dean waits for Sam to finish before he says, "Listen. I'm about to say something that sounds a little crazy, and I know you're going to think I'm possessed or whatever, but I'm not and she's not, okay? No, Sam, I'm not—just, be quiet for a second. Alright. There's not really an easy way around this—No, Sam, I'm fine. I promise. I'm not hurt." Dean rolls his eyes, but it's oddly as fond as it is annoyed, " _No._ For the love of—Sammy, I'm standing next to Jessica. Your Jessica."

There's a beat of silence, then Dean pulls the phone away from his ear, looking worried and offended all at once. It causes his lips to press together as his eyebrows draw up, leaving him looking younger than he must be. "He hung up on me."

Jess pinches harder at the skin and huffs. "Are you really surprised?"

Dean considers that, then expels. "No."

She holds out her hand for the phone. Dean puts it in her palm obediently, and Jess re-dials the number a few times before it's picked up again. Sam's voice is thick and angry, but still recognizable. Still her Sam. "This isn't funny, Dean. You can be a bit of a jerk sometimes, but _this_ —"

"Hi baby," she says, keeping her voice as still as she can.

All she wants to do is cry.

Sam goes dead silent.

"Sam?" she asks hesitantly. There's a ragged intake of breath, as if Sam is trying to stop himself from crying. Jess digs her teeth into her inner cheek for a long moment to hold back her own tears. "I know how crazy this sounds, baby, I know," she assures, pinching at the skin. It helps her keep her voice steady, even if her thoughts are racing, "But I really am here, okay? Dean asked for a description of the...of the ring, do you want that, too?"

Sam exhales sharply.

Jess plows forward carefully. "It's waves, like the ocean. Like our Cali. There's white diamonds on every crest, and an inscription."

"'Crash and burn'," they recite together. Jess's lip tugs up in a smile, even as tears begin to slip down her cheeks. Dean's hand is suddenly on her shoulder, a supportive lifeline in this ocean of uncertainty. He seems to do it automatically, but awkwardly, as if comfort isn't his default setting. She gives him a slight smile of thanks, then returns her attention to her boyfriend. "I love it, baby. It's perfect. You always knew me best."

Sam releases a sob, then whispers, "Jess," in a voice that is young, lost, and broken.

And Jess squeezes her eyes shut and leans against Dean, who is suddenly there. Like he's trying to offer Sam support by giving it to her instead. "I'm here, Sam," she promises.

Sam cries, and sounds like he's trying to pull himself together, but failing. "Oh my gosh," he breathes, "Jess. I...I—I—I don't...I don't even know what…" he's quiet a moment, then whispers in a desperate, aching plea, "what would I do without you?"

And, as she has done dozens of times before, Jess promptly answers, "Crash and burn."

Then the two of them fall apart.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have any idea where I'm going with this story. I've just noticed that no one really plays with Jess being alive, so, yeah, here I am to fill that role. This is also inspired by me thinking about Jess and Lisa complaining about their self-sacrificing boyfriends and/or husbands to each other over coffee. So we'll get there, at least. :D
> 
> Depending on how many people are interested will rank this on my list of priorities.
> 
> Next chapter: Probably before August.
> 
> If you're comfortable with it, I would love to hear your thoughts.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your support and interest! It really means a lot, like, honestly guys, it's just something you can't explain to someone who doesn't publish fics. :) Thank you.
> 
> Warnings: PSTD, vague alluded mental health issues.

* * *

Jess loves her parents, she really does, but they've done all they can and she needs answers to her death that she won't get by remaining in Bosie. And, if she's being honest with herself, they don't get it. Being back from the dead. They try, but it just...the way they _stare_ at her sometimes.

Haunted. Disturbed.

And she _needs_ to see Sam. So, with reluctance, hugs, tears, and a promise to call, Jess packs up a bag of some of her mom's clothing, stuffs on a pair of her mom's old shoes and heads to the Impala with Dean. Dean stayed the night on their couch while she slept in the guest bedroom again, and though he barely scraped six hours of sleep, _he's_ ushering her out the door so they can start the journey.

To Sam.

Who is _States_ from here, but Dean makes it seem like the drive will be no problem.

Sam's taking ( _taking,_ as in stealing, but she can't...at this point she doesn't know if she _can_ care) a car to meet them halfway, and Jess waits with a nervous, bouncing energy in the passenger seat of the Impala as Dean drives. He speeds. It makes her uncomfortable, but she doesn't comment. After about an hour of awkward silence and strained small talk, Dean shoves in a tape with songs that instantly cause her to perk. She looks up at Sam's brother, "Metallica?" she asks with amazement.

Dean glances at her, as if surprised. "Um, yeah."

"Bless you." Jess says seriously. "This is music from the gods."

Dean relaxes somewhat. She didn't even realize he was tensed up until some of it drops. "I know, right? Sammy pretends to hate this stuff, but I've weakened him over the last couple years. Or he's grown to hate it even. I'm never sure. It's the same handful of albums, so maybe we're both just numb."

He admits this what looks like reluctance, but Jess only snorts. "Yeah. That'd do it. You seen his CD collection? Man was manic, I swear. Over thirty-five that I know of, but that's only what I saw." Something flickers across Dean's face. Twisted, but she's not sure what it is. Carefully, she plows forward, "Got a CD player installed in the old beat-up pickup truck that my dad gave me for Cali and everything. You seen _Pirates of the Caribbean_?"

Dean makes a face, like there's a story behind that. "Ah, no. Don't think so."

Jess feels her eyebrows raise with surprise. "Huh. Well. I _liked_ the album when I saw it for the first time, but after Sam played it on repeat for the thousand and first time, I was pretty ready to break the CD. Don't tell him, but I hid it...in...oh."

Their apartment burned.

 _Everything_ burned that day. She looked it up after she learned about Sam allegedly becoming a serial killer. All of her possessions. All of Sam's. The CD collection that he treasured so dearly, the books, childhood nicknacks he managed to keep after he moved to Stanford. The only thing that Sam walked away from that day was the clothing on his back and grief. All her drawings, the cookbooks, her favorite shirt with a weird panda.

She feels her expression fall, and her tongue feels heavy.

It was just an apartment. Not even a house. But it was _theirs._

"I didn't know about the pirates thing," Dean interjects, and she lifts her gaze towards him. "He doesn't really talk about Stanford, y'know? I mean. He _does,_ just…"

She waves a hand slightly, sighing, "Yeah. I know. Sam-speak."

Dean's lip quirks. He looks like he's going to say something, but Jess is done talking. She leans forward and turns up the volume to the album she's listened to thousands of times, but her heart aches for the familiar strum of "He's a Pirate" with Sam tapping his fingers along with the beat.

Jess sinks into the jacket and tilts her head against the window, looking out.

It's almost been two weeks, but the realization seems to _strike_ her just then. She can't go back to Stanford. Not as a dead woman. She'll never step inside her home again. Her life as she knew it is over. And she doesn't know what that means.

000o000

Dean stops for lunch a little past two PM. They left a little after ten, and still have hours left of their drive, even with Sam meeting them halfway. She's not entirely certain where he's driving in from—Dean didn't mention it—but they'd agreed for a small town in the middle of nowhere, Colorado. Her legs are sore, her back aches, and she thinks if she has to remain inside the car for any longer she's going to cry or break something.

Breakfast wore off a while ago. Jess only has the few hundred dollar bills her parents gave her for the road, but the moment she leans forward toward the pack in between her legs and starts to pull it out, Dean stuffs it back inside her mom's borrowed backpack. Her mom is a little weird like that. No purses, always backpacks, for as long as she can remember. She just took a previously discarded one.

Jess raises an eyebrow, and looks up at Dean. "We need to pay."

Dean makes a noise in the back of his throat, probably in agreement. Then he pulls out his wallet and lifts up a few twenties at her. "I've got it." He promises, flashing a smile.

She doesn't know if this is him trying to be a gentleman, or some sort of weird guilt complex.

Jess's eyebrow raises.

He shakes his head, something dark flashing in the back of his green eyes for a moment. Then it's gone, and the exhaustion and relief take its place. She's beginning to get the impression that Dean is all upfront, but only with what he wants you to see. "Believe me, Jessica, it's the last thing I can do for you."

There's an undercurrent there.

"It's Jess." She submits with a sigh, brushing hair from her face. Dean's lip twitches up, as if remembering something. She wets her lips and plows forward, trying to keep herself lighthearted when all she wants is to open the car window and howl into the parking lot of the diner. _One more minute in this car, and she swears..._ "My grandma's name was Jessica."

"Bad thing?" Dean guesses.

Yeah. One way to put it.

Jessica scoffs. "You could say that. We weren't close."

Apparently, Sam did not take it upon himself to explain that to Dean. She wonders vaguely what Sam _has_ said about her. Not much, given how Dean seems to be trying to soak in every detail like he's a sponge. Oddly, that makes her feel a little disappointed. But she knows that's just how Sam _is._ He doesn't really talk and reminisce. Not unless he's drugged. Or drunk.

It's why she doesn't know much about Dean, either. Dean as a person, not as what he did. She knows that he practically raised Sam, that Sam regretted leaving him with their father, and he is probably the best older brother she has ever heard of. He also put superglue into Sam's toothpaste on a dare when Sam was thirteen, so there's that.

It's weird to speak _with_ him, rather than Dean being an obscure construct she's imagined. Honestly, with her believing them to be in Witness Protection for most of the time she knew Sam, knowing the truth makes him seem more cemented.

Dean huffs, "there's a story" but nods slightly and then pushes open the Impala's door. The metal groans, and he pauses before turning back to her, "You want to eat in the diner, or should I see if we can get it to go?"

Jess considers that for a second. She bites on the inside of her lip as she imagines being stuffed inside with people. It makes her want to puke. She used to be so social. Maybe one day, but not now. She meets Dean's eyes, "Outside would be best." She says.

Dean gives another nod, "Okay. Anything you want me to order? If not I'll just pick the first thing I see."

Jess rubs her thumbs over her mom's old jacket sleeves and shrugs, "The biggest, most heart-attack looking burger they have. If not that, then order me cake." She says.

Dean stares at her.

She blinks, suddenly self conscious. "What?"

"Nothing, I just," Dean's head tips somewhat, "you're different than I thought you'd be."

Her stomach clenches. She'd been trying so hard, but... "Is it bad?"

"No. No," Dean shoots down quickly, almost seeming surprised by the suggestion. "Good thing. I just...with Sam being such a health freak, I kinda thought that he'd date someone who was...into kale and that."

Health freak. That's what he called it? Her stomach twists a little with sympathy.

Jess's stomach twists, but she bites back the reactive defense and instead forces a snort and throws out words in a hope that Dean will ignore her hesitation. "First, I like running and swimming, but I'm not a health freak. Second: Kale is the most abhorrent food on the planet; Sam agrees with me, ask him about Fourth of July coleslaw, 2005. And third—I've been dead for four years. I've earned this."

Dean's eyes crinkle with laughter and he smirks, looking like he's biting his tongue. The happiness makes him look young. His eyes are so heavy, to see any of that lifted makes him seem like an entirely different person. The lines on his face don't suggest that he does a lot of laughing, though.

Then he says with more fondness than she'd been expecting, "Sammy should've married you a long time ago" and shuts the Impala's door. With that bomb dropped into her lap, he leaves to order their food. Jess blinks, staring at his back and trying to process that.

When she'd thought about Sam's family, she never really imagined them _liking_ her. She knows that his family viewed his college education as abandonment, and she'd kind of expected them to resent her for keeping him there. Sam was prepared to leave with an Associates and call it a day before Brady introduced them. He'd stayed, turning to get a degree in something he actually wanted to do instead of limping back to his family's business ( _ghost hunting)_ , because of her.

But Dean...doesn't seem to mind her. Maybe a little mystified at her resurrection, but other than that—he's...nice. A little bit of a wisecrack, but she knew that already.

He's different than she was expecting, too.

000o000

They do, in fact, have burgers at the diner, and they take it to go. The sandwich Dean brings her looks like it could easily feed two people, and Jess happily digs in. Dean forces her from the interior Impala to sit on the hood, declaring adamantly "no crumbs on the seats" and Jess soaks up some sunshine as they eat. Dean ordered a burger, too, albeit one that looked a little calmer than her own, even with all the extra onions.

The burger tastes amazing, but that might be because she hasn't eaten one since before she died. The thought of climbing back into the Impala makes her want to cry, but Jess happily rests her arms against her stomach and dozes for the next two hours. Dean seems content to listen to his album and let her sleep, pausing only to throw a blanket from the back onto her face when her intentions become clear.

It smells like Sam, and she gets a pretty good idea who used it last.

Then she drifts.

When she wakes up later, and offers to trade Dean out for driving, he looks at her like she stabbed his child. She doesn't ask again.

000o000

It's a little past eight thirty PM when they arrive at the designated meeting point. It's a motel with the only cars parked likely being the employees and Sam's stolen red SUV. The exterior of the building has seen better days, and the flashing "MOTEL 6" on the top of the roof only has two letters working.

Sam is already there, sitting on the curb and ringing his hands as they come to a stop, headlights illuminating his figure. Jess drinks in the sight of him breathlessly. He's lost his bangs, parted in the center in a way that makes him seem a little older. He's wearing a baggy gray jacket she doesn't remember, and red flannel beneath that. There's an almost hunted look to his gaze, but it settles as the Impala comes into view.

She recognizes him, but doesn't.

It's a weird sensation.

Jess nonetheless hobbles out of the car on stiff muscles, releasing a low curse as her calf cramps slightly, then limps in Sam's direction. He's already on his feet and moving towards her, and before she knows it, she's wrapped inside his embrace. She feels warm and safe pressed up against him, as she always has. She breathes in his scent and returns the hug, trying to make up for four years of missed ones.

He's still tall. Lanky. He smells a little different. More...metallic, weirdly. Almost like blood.

Sam is shuddering. Crying, she realizes. Jess's own eyes sting. She pulls back and looks up at his face, feeling her expression mold with sympathy. She lifts up a hand to his cheek, wiping at the tears with her thumb. He leans into her touch, "Hey," she says softly, her own eyes welling up hypocritically, "none of that, okay? We're okay. I'm okay, you're okay."

He keeps staring at her face, but gives a slow nod like he wants to appease her, but doesn't believe her.

Not that she blames him. She's having trouble believing this is real, too.

Sam's fingers trace the back of her neck for the chain, then he's gently pulling it out from where it's tucked beneath her jacket and staring at the ring. Sam breathes out sharply as he looks at it, like he's been gutted, then meets her eyes with sorrowful ones.

She tries for a smile, but she's beginning to cry, too.

Sam lifts it to his lips and kisses the metal, then tucks her head against his chest again, breathing out sharp. He's still gripping it. Jess lifts up a hand to grab his fist, leaning against him.

The first words he says to her in person are not _hello_ or _you're alive_ like she'd been expecting. Maybe even some sort of lame joke. Instead, "I love you," is what falls out. It's so soft, like he's afraid of the words.

"I love you, too," she promises.

His hand tightens around the ring for a moment, "Jess, will you marry me?"

She's not surprised by the question, even though she feels like she should be. Nor is she as frantic. Oddly, she just feels...abnormally calm. She'd always pictured her engagement as being some sort of grand date. All day together, then the question would pop out at the end, sealing the memory as one to remember. But in the end, this is all she could have wanted.

"You're an idiot if you'd think I'd say no." She mutters.

"Humor me,"

"Yes," Jess says, closing her eyes for a moment. Sam holds her tighter, just breathing. No laughter. No tears. Just relief and a silent contentment that speaks more than any words ever could have. Jess smiles into his shirt, and raises her eyes up.

There she can see Dean standing next to the Impala, hands stuffed inside his pockets and looking for all the world like he's impassive. But she can see the strain on his face, and the thin little wet tracks on his face. The tenseness in his jaw.

Jess closes her eyes, breathing in.

000o000

Jess watches Sam and Dean reunite with an awkward shoulder pat on Dean's part, words quick and hushed as they speak. There's something rigid in both their stances, a tightness that speaks of trouble deeper than a few petty arguments. Dean hands something to Sam she doesn't quite see, gives his younger brother a murmured _congratulations_ under his breath and then he's slipping inside the pre-paid for motel room and shutting the door.

It almost seems like he's exiting one world and stepping into another.

Jess sits down on the curb, and Sam's hand slides around her shoulders as he joins her. They sit like that for a long few minutes, Jess staring at the ring now adorning her fourth finger, the sky, and the man beside her. She smiles encouragingly when their eyes meet. Sam tries to return it, but it only makes her repress a wince at how fake and tired it seems.

Jess breaks the silence first. Their tears are over, the initial joy and shock of their reunion completed. (It can never be over, not properly, but it's almost as if someone has hit _pause,_ and she doesn't get a choice.) Now it's time for some answers. She releases a heavy breath then says, "I thought your family was in Witness Protection."

Sam stiffens, confused. "What?"

"I know you know what that is," she says without much humor. "And I really did _honestly_ think that's what was going on. Instead, your family hunts ghosts. And demons. And shapeshifters. And God knows what else out there."

Sam sighs, "Jess…"

"Don't," she lifts up a hand, "I'm not done talking yet. Honestly Sam, what did you think I was going to do? I mean, okay, yeah, I would have thought you were crazy, but it explains a lot more than Witness Protection ever did. I mean, you came home smelling like smoke and dirt once and I could never figure out why. Then there was the guns you hid and the knife you sometimes slept with. And that one time that man tried to jump me and you nearly removed the head of. And I thought 'sure, his dad is a little weird, and his brother must've taught him some stuff'. But no.

"Samuel Winchester, do not start," she snaps sharply when he opens his mouth. "Baby, If you try to apologize, I will lovingly kick you in the shins. I just. I wouldn't have hated you. Or dumped you. I mean, what you do...it's pretty amazing. You don't get paid. Or asked. You just...do it. I admire that about both you and your brother. I'm proud of you."

Sam rubs the back of his neck, still as uncomfortable with praise as he was when they were in Stanford. The sight makes something in her ache. At least that much hasn't changed.

"I lead with that because I know where your mind is going, and you are _not_ just ditching me on the side of the road for my own protection." She finally says. Sam's mouth tightens into a thin line. Jess punches him lightly on the arm, "I did not crawl from the grave so you could leave me. We're doing this together, your brother and all. I'm going to help you hunt your ghosts and ghouls or whatever, because I'm not going to play helpless maiden in white. And I swear, if you try to ditch me after you just proposed, the supernatural world will be the _least_ of your problems."

Sam is quiet a second, then rubs his thumb over his knuckles. "Jess, I...wasn't going to suggest we dump you off somewhere." She feels her face flare with open surprise, "Look—I know this life. And it's not great, but the safest place for you is with us. At least until we know what brought you back and why."

Jess bites on her lower lip. The unknown of that makes her feel slightly sick. "Okay."

She'd expected to have to fight for it.

Sam seems too tired. Dean, too.

"Okay." Sam echoes, then rubs his forehead, then looks at her. "And for the record, I didn't want to lie to you. I just...normal life with a picket fence, some kids...it all seemed like a dream until I met you. And I wanted that, without the hunting. This job isn't glamorous, Jess. It's dangerous and it's hard. I didn't want to pull you into that."

He didn't.

Whoever rose her from the dead did.

And it was her decision to track down Sam.

Jess sighs and grips his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, "Baby, you aren't pulling me into anything. It was my choice. You really should have thought about this before you proposed."

Sam's lip twitches, a ghost of a smile she knows so well, and he kisses her gently on the forehead. "I missed you."

She leans her head on his shoulder. "I know."

000o000

Jess is exhausted, but Dean wakes up before six and drags them all out of bed.

Breakfast is pickup from a nearby diner, and while Jess doesn't exactly mind, the pancakes are kinda nasty and the syrup is a little too thin. Sam and Dean both don't seem to notice, inhaling the food like it's the last meal they'll be eating in days. A part of her twists with sympathy when she realizes that that's probably happened before. Multiple times if it's habit.

Another wonders when the last time either of them had a home-cooked meal was. Do they never grocery shop? And what? Survive off of at least one meal a day, granola bars, and willpower? Actually, now that she's thinking about it, that sounds _exactly_ like something Sam would do. Dean is probably no different.

The silence is kind of awkward though. Sam is tense and clenched, like he's expecting Dean to stab his hand with a fork or storm out all together, and Dean is kinda jumpy. Not in an obvious way, but enough. And whenever Sam looks away, Dean will stare at him like he's a stranger.

Having had the better part of seventeen months learning about their relationship and molding it around in her head, this doesn't really...fit. It seems like she stepped into the middle of an unspoken family drama, and she doesn't exactly know what to do about that.

But she can distract.

"So," Jess pushes her unfinished plate forward on the table somewhat. It scrapes, and that makes her wince. "Either of you have any theories? About me?"

Both their gazes flick to her, away from wherever they've been staring. Beneath the table, Sam's hand tightens briefly on her own. Once they were seated, he hasn't let go of it. She doesn't mind, and being lefthanded has given her an advantage over the general populous once again. Using a fork wasn't a problem during breakfast.

Dean clears his throat, taking a swig of straight black coffee. "Uh, no. Not really. I mean, I've got a few ideas, but most undead aren't...put together."

Jess makes a face. "You can just say it," she rolls her eyes lightly, "crazy. Drooling. Craving human flesh?"

Dean's lips press together. "Yeah. That."

"Which I'm not." Jess adds after a second. Then, seeing the tautness between the siblings, lifts up her and Sam's joined hands and looks at his fingers. There's scars there. Little things, that look like they're from rosebushes or a vicious cat. "Well, I mean, maybe. Mm. Put some icing on those fingers and they'd make a delicious dessert."

That startles an awkward sound from Sam, and a wide-eyed look from Dean.

Jess pouts, dropping their hands. "You're no fun. Both of you. Don't either of you _laugh?"_

The two make eye-contact for the first time since stepping into the building, but it's only to share a pained, knowing look. Jess's heart sinks, but she forces herself to acknowledge the win. Eye contact is something, isn't it?

 _What happened,_ she wants to ask, or demand in a shout. But the words remain unspoken, and Sam scrapes his fork across the empty plate as Dean nurses his coffee. The mood is more solemn, and Jess shakes her head slightly.

Okay.

"So the fact that I'm not feeling any desire to murder is...bad?" she says awkwardly.

Did she really just ask that? She really just asked that.

"No," Sam shoots down immediately, "no. It's just...harder. It rules out necromancer, draugr, and, well, zombie. But it just means that we don't really know where to start looking for answers." His voice is patient, like when she'd take her English papers to him and he'd check them over. After meeting him, she never got anything less than an A.

Sam turns to Dean, who is watching them in what he probably thinks is inconspicuously—it isn't—from behind the coffee cup. "You said that the grave was dug up, and the coffin empty? The officer you spoke to mentioned sulfur?"

Dean nods.

Jess crinkles her nose at the reminder. Everything about those first few moments are hazy and drizzled with panic.

"Demon, maybe?" Sam suggests.

Dean shakes his head, "Average Joe doesn't have the mojo, and crossroads wouldn't have to make a physical appearance to raise someone."

Speaking of, that's a little weird, though, now that she's thinking about it. Because if someone just woke her up, wouldn't she have been _inside_ the coffin? But she wasn't. The thought makes her kind of sick. Someone took her mangled, _bony_ corpse and laid it out on the ground.

"I was on the ground." Jess says, and both stop to look at her. Gazes piercing. It makes her want to shy back, and the sensation is a little weird. She's never been a shy person, able to hold the weight of a stare, then establish dominance by making them look away first. "On the other side of the grave. Someone took me out of the coffin."

Oh, that is so gross.

And makes her feel strangely offended.

Sam makes a face she can't interpret, but it looks angry. Dean's jaw shifts slightly, but he nods, "Alright, weird. I don't know of any resurrection freaks that need to manhandle the corpse first. Sam?" Sam gives a little shake of his head, but his eyes are moving as he thinks. "Were there any sort of weird symbols on the ground when you woke up? Candles? Paint?"

Jess shakes her head. "It was just dirt. And grass. I was cold, though...D'you think I was there for a while?"

That's also weird. To just have been _napping_ in a graveyard like it was a park. Not her choice, but still. The cold feeling prickles at the edge of her back and Jess feels her left hand drifting, pinching at the skin above her ribs. It hurts and she contains a grimace.

"Maybe." Dean considers, "Could've given whatever it was time to clean up a ritual."

"You can't really clean paint off of grass," Sam points out. "Or re-grow it if you burned it."

"No unholy ground. Not a witch." Dean lists. "I didn't see the circle of doom."

Jess feels herself sputter. _Witches?_ No one mentioned any witches. Does that mean that Hogwarts is...no. Don't be stupid.

Wait. _Circle of doom?_

Sam doesn't even seem fazed. "Or a ghost. Even if it was cold."

They do this professionally, Jess realizes. This is their _life._ They discuss stuff like this over food all the time, and it's _normal._ She can't even imagine their childhood. Talking about ghosts and hunting instead, like, movies or school. Or whatever siblings discuss. She doesn't know.

The two of them bounce a few more ideas off of each other, some of which she knows aren't even English. Japanese, German, and then they patter out to a stop. But it seems like they're filling in empty silence, and both of them just running through motions.

As if they've already made a conclusion, but don't want to say it outloud.

Or tell her.

"Alright, out with it." She says, and those surprised eyes flash back to her. Jess makes a face. "You really think you're being subtle? Because you're not. So what is my diagnosis, doctor?"

"We don't know." Dean says, attempting sincere. It falls flat and false. An empty platitude that's only given because it's expected, but not because any of them want it.

 _Sure,_ Jess wants to say, but she knows when she's beat.

000o000

Jess retreats to the bathroom before they leave and stares at her face in the mirror. She hasn't had access to mascara, concealer, or any sort of makeup since she died and she flinches at the sight of her natural face. It's stupid, and something that she's always found frustrating. Ever since she was little, Jess has wanted to feel pretty with her natural features.

Never really panned out that way.

Jess sighs miserably, splashes cold water onto her face, and takes the one ponytail she borrowed from her mom and pulls her hair back again. What she really wants is access to a flat iron, or even bobby pins. But she doesn't have that, and doesn't know if she will again. It seems kind of stupid to bring up in the face of everything.

Her mom shoved clothing onto her before they left Idaho, and it's not much. And too big. Jess isn't one for baggy clothing. Hoodies yes. Jackets yes. But it's a weird pet peeve of hers if her shirts don't fit.

She looks homeless.

She _is_ homeless.

Jess zips the jacket up and watches herself in the mirror again, trying to recognize herself, but can't.

Jess exits the bathroom and walks back towards the table, noticing immediately that Sam and Dean are leaning forward in heated, soft discussion. When she left them, they weren't saying anything. Yeah. So. Withheld information is a definite. Whatever it was that dragged her back must be bad if they're trying to keep it from her. A dull, tired part of her wonders if they're going to have to go out back and put a bullet in her skull before the day is over.

Why else would they withhold this from her?

She keeps her footsteps light as she approaches the table, and is surprised when neither notices her. Dean is facing the door, but his back is to her. Sam is on the other side, where she left him, and he doesn't even glance up.

She catches the last edge of their conversation before Sam notices the movement from the corner of his eye.

"—and ask."

"How is he supposed to know, Sam? It's not like he can just call them."

"Maybe he heard something over angel radio. Bobby said that—hey Jess."

Sam smiles at her, and there's more sincerity in it than his others have been. Something in her calms at the sight. She tries to return it, but judging by the concern in his eyes, she doesn't succeed.

Jess comes to as top at the table, and sees that the bill has already been paid. Dean gets up to his feet, sending a look she doesn't understand to Sam, and a wave of silent conversation passes between the two of them, as if they're determined to finish what she interrupted before they leave.

At least they're talking. Better than the silence.

Jess presses her lips together and parts them with effort, turning to her boyfri—fiancé. The word is foreign. Odd. Something she'd hoped to be able to say, but never expected to. "Are you ready to go?" she asks.

Sam nods. He gets up. She takes his hand, and they return to the motel room.

000o000

Sam's on a laptop. Dean is cleaning guns.

Jess sits down across from him, and he glances up at her once. She stares at the weapon and wishes for a moment that she knew guns better than she does. It probably has an official number like .34 or whatever, but though Jess grew up on a farm, her stepfather had a shotgun and that was it. And it was only to scare off the rare wild animal and sometimes just to fit in with the neighbors.

To her, it's "gun."

Jess watches him take a thin tube-like thing with something attached to the end and stuff it inside to clean the barrel. She hadn't realized there was so much maintenance to them. She'd really only seen her stepfather's shotgun on the wall.

"You ever fire a gun before?" Dean asks, clearly just trying to fill the silence because her staring is awkward.

It makes her flush, and she pinches the skin above her ribs. "Ah, no. I mean, I've held one, but I don't even know where the safety is."

Sam snorts, and she glances up at him, seeing a twinkle of laughter in his eyes. He's still looking at the screen, but it's there. The sight is startling. She hadn't even realized that it was gone until it's there again. Sam isn't happy, and it doesn't seem like he's been that way for a while. "That's not what you told Jake Hanniton."

"That's 'cause Jake's a jerk." She retorts immediately, making a face of distaste at the reminder.

"What?" Dean asks, looking between the two of them.

Sam shakes his head with a huff of laughter, but doesn't say anything, the jerk. Jess looks up at Dean and suddenly feels uncomfortable with his scrutiny. There's something about Dean that puts her at ease despite the fact she's only known him for a few days. Both Dean and Sam do that. Radiate _calm_ and this other that makes her _want_ to trust them.

But sharing stupid little stories like this? It just feels out of place in the grand scheme of everything. Jess came back from the dead. Sam and Dean are in the middle of some sort of feud, and there's something _bigger_ going on here that neither have addressed. Her parents hadn't heard anything from Sam in months, so it's not like she could get information off of them. _Just talk to me,_ she wants to demand, but it feels too soon. Too fresh. Too raw.

 _Later,_ she tells herself.

"I, um," she fumbles for a moment, trying to ground herself. She pinches the skin and barely contains a shudder. "There was this guy back at my old job—fast food—and he was just...ugh. Not winning any awards at decent human, if you know what I mean," Dean nods, snapping something on the gun's top. "Anyway, he was pretty into playing pranks and thought it would be funny if he put mint inside of everything we sold one day. For some reason, the assistant manager was convinced it was me and nearly fired me. I managed to get things sorted out, but I cornered Jake in the parking lot after that and told him that if he didn't pull his act together I was going to take my dad's rifle out for some practice. On. Y'know. Him."

Sam hides a smile in the corner of her eye.

Dean stares at her, lip twitching up. "You threatened to shoot someone?"

She shrugs. "I mean, this isn't Texas or anything, but yeah. I don't think he realized that my parents were in Idaho and my threat was pretty void. But I mean, I really got into detail and everything about what his skull would look like when I was done. He was only sixteen. I feel kinda bad about it, now, to be honest."

Dean only snickers a little and shakes his head in bemusement, glancing up once at Sam and opens his mouth as if to say something, but the humor fades a little and he returns tot he guns, posture tight.

 _What?_ She wants to demand for the hundredth time, but instead leans forward. If she's going to help with...hunting, or whatever she should probably learn how to use a gun. Honestly, with just knowing what's out there, learning how to use a gun sounds like an extreme comfort. "Is that the safety?" She points in question.

Dean shakes his head, "No. Wow. Okay. Yeah, you've not handled a gun before. Here," he puts in in her hand, and Jess feels her eyebrows raise at the weight. It's both heavier and lighter than she thought it would be. "This is the safety—which I wouldn't recommend disengaging, so pull your finger off—and this is the trigger."

"I know _that._ I'm not stupid."

"Never said you were, princess. Don't grip it so tight. It's not a rocket, it won't shoot off into space if you loosen your grip. You'll only tire out your hand. Here's the…"

Dean knows a lot about guns. Kind of like how you know a lot about something you've been obsessed with since you were a child. But she doubts it was a matter of obsession and more so of survival.

000o000

Exhaustion feels like a ghost haunting her, and with her head spinning about guns, Jess crawls onto the bed beside Sam and rests her head beside his leg and falls asleep. Sam's arm falls onto her shoulders automatically, and when she wakes up, he's still hunched over the laptop, eyes bloodshot and tired.

She glances at the clock—nine twenty-one AM—and decides that all of them having spent a majority of the night awake, but not silent about it, he shouldn't be up yet. Nor Dean, but the elder Winchester is missing. "Where's Dean?" she mumbles, but it sounds more like a slurred _whsdn._

Ever fluent in her garbled speech, Sam answers, "Out."

"Specific."

Sam's face twitches. Guilt. _Ah,_ Jess thinks, _they really do have a theory then._ She wonders who the "he" was they were talking about in the restaurant. Maybe another hunter. Some sort of contact that must have a little information. Or a better guess than they do.

"It's early, and you never sleep." Jess grabs the edge of the laptop lid and yanks it closed. Sam barely manages to avoid getting his fingers smashed. "Go to sleep, Samuel."

"It's Sam, Jessica," he protests, and she makes a face. "I've got things I need to do and you're just grumpy. Go back to sleep, m'lady."

She closes her eyes, and he strokes her hair, fingers soft and delicate, like he's afraid that if he pushes too much she'll vanish. _Four years,_ her heart reminds in pain, and she sighs into the uncomfortable blanket. "Y'don't sleep enough." She complains. "And 'm not grumpy."

"Of course not," Sam agrees. Liar.

He opens the laptop back up, and it hums into the silence of the room, his fingers tapping across the keyboard. A sound she associates with college. Hours of listening to Sam type as she reads or studies, both of them miserable and tired, but unwilling to give up on homework just yet.

Just as Jess is teetering on the edge of sleep again, there's this sort of fluttering noise, then a presence of _other_ enters the room. She jerks, lurching upright with surprise. Sam yanks a gun she didn't know he had on him out and points it towards the figure, shifting to block her, the laptop open beside his legs. The safety clicks off, but it doesn't seem to be a conscious decision.

Heart pounding rapidly, Jess leans to the side, watching as a figure storms forward. He's not as tall as Sam or Dean, but isn't exactly small, either. Dressed in a cream-colored trench coat, and a suit with a loose blue and white striped tie, with wild, dark hair, he looks like some sort of bedraggled FBI agent.

Sam's gun lowers slightly, a confused, "Cas?" escaping him.

Jess has half a second to hear the door click open and spot Dean appear in the doorway, looking somewhat frantic before the trenchcoat man—Cas?—has bodily grabbed Sam and pushed him away from the bed. Her finacé crumples to the floor. The show of strength is startling. Sam isn't someone you just _push._

Then Jess looks up and catches the wild, electric blue eyes and feels her stomach twist. Something close to horror and respect wash through her, and Jess feels inexplicably small all of the sudden. There's something unearthly about the entire man, something she can't even describe. Almost like a strong electric current, and you can feel that _hum_ on your skin. The ethereal power.

There's a tangy, burning sensation in her mouth.

Not human, her mind frantically assesses.

That's about all she gets time to wildly deduce before he's grabbed her up by the throat, hauled her off the bed on the other side of where he dumped Sam, and presses a long surprisingly reflective metal blade up over her heart.

Then those narrowed, unearthly blue eyes flare white for a moment and she _swears_ she sees the outline of wings stretching from his back. He snarls.

Jess does what any reasonable person would do in this situation and screams.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Um, August? I'll try for August.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your support guys! I'm a little nervous about this chapter, so hopefully it's okay.
> 
> Warnings: Anxiety, some gore.
> 
> Heads up, the "t" on my keyboard was acting up, so there might be a few "t"'s MIA in this chapter.

* * *

Her scream dies sharply when something plunges into her stomach, replaced by a sharp, surprised gasp. There's this sort of wet squish that's somehow easy to hear over the sound of her voice. That's the blade, entering her stomach, she realizes.

Her hands flail, but she's not sure what to do with them.

The light hums down, and when it's at a level she can endure, she opens her eyes and looks. Cas's blade is sticking out of her. He stabbed her. _There's something sticking out of her stomach._ It doesn't hurt. Isn't it supposed to be, like, white hot agony? Or make her collapse in the least? Weaken her? That's how wounds work. Especially in the abdomen.

Jess only feels calm.

The light flickers away from her peripheral, still there, but not painful. And the only thing Jess can think to do is say, "you just stabbed me" in a voice that is no where near appropriate for this situation. It's indignant. She looks up at Cas, who is watching her with wide, horrified eyes.

It's disturbing to see something so powerful afraid.

He releases the dagger and backs away from her so suddenly it causes her to stagger. She didn't realize he was holding her up until he let her go.

The wound still doesn't hurt. She's not even sure if it's bleeding. Dawning comprehension begins to slowly settle over her like sunshine warming her skin. She doesn't feel the pain because there's no pain to feel. She's not bleeding. Cas stabbed her in the stomach, and she's not bleeding.

" _Cas!_ " She doesn't know who shouts it. Maybe both siblings do. She's not really in the state of mind to be taking detailed notes.

Sam reaches her first. He was on the floor on the other side of the bed and simply vaults it to reach her like it's nothing. Horror is etched onto every feature of his face as he looks at her, then the weapon sticking out of her. When she breathes, she can feel it shifting inside her, in between her ribcage, scraping up against the bones. It's awful.

Jess stops breathing.

Sam releases frantic, panicked noises, moving to her. He grips her shoulder, looking over her for a moment to see what Jess suspects is the other end of the blade sticking from her back. He's saying her name, shaking her lightly, and Jess only shakes her head a little.

"I'm okay," she says.

Sam looks at her like she just spoke in Japanese.

"I'm okay," she repeats, hardly daring to believe it, "it doesn't hurt, see," she reaches down and grabs the hilt of the weapon, pulling it from her body despite Sam's panicked " _Jess don'_ _t!"_ that tries to dissuade her. The blade is covered with blood, slick, like it'd been doused in water. It drips to the floor.

She stares at it, transfixed.

Sam makes a slight mewling noise in the back of his throat, reaching for her. His palm is barely an inch from the wound—the stab that should be bleeding, or _hurting_ but isn't, and is this shock or something else?—before Cas's hand wraps around Sam's wrist and yanks his arm back with such force it seems painful.

" _No_!" Cas's voice is thick with something Jess can't decipher. Sam struggles in the grip, reaching for her, but Cas pulls him back with that inhuman strength again. Away and away and away. Sam makes a broken, gasping sound, fighting Cas like his very soul depends on it. Cas is immovable, trying to say something to him that won't register.

Jess blinks, looking at the silver weapon in her grip. It seems dull, but it isn't. It crept cleanly through her skin without a problem.

Dean appears in the corner of her vision, first-aid kit in hand. He has a bandage, and reaches for her like he intends to provide the medical attention she should need, but she's not really _bleeding._ She turns slightly to face him, but feels very far away. Her breaths are stuttering puffs, like she's a car engine that won't start.

Where is the pain?

_Where is the pain?_

Dean grabs her left forearm, gentle, though his eyes are wild and darting.

Cas makes a violent shrieking noise that sounds like something is trying to rip his lungs up through his throat. "Dean, _don't touch her!"_ Dean flinches back, and suddenly the man—not man—is grabbing Dean's hand and yanking him away sharply, looking over the palm for something.

"Cas, what the—!?" Dean starts, yanking his hand back, "You just friggin stabbed her! I'm not just gonna—"

"Leave it!" Cas shouts, then twists around to soccer mom push Sam backward and behind before he can make any ground towards her. " _Don't!"_

"Cas, please," Sam sobs, "please, let me—"

Cas only pushes the siblings further back, like he has to keep them safe from her. _Her._ The only person in this room that doesn't have a weapon on them. The thought is absurd. What is she going to do to them? _Bleed_ on them?

Speaking of which...

Jess breathes in very slowly, then, switching her grip on the blade, she carefully presses a hand against her stomach, feeling for the wound beneath her torn shirt. The blue fabric shifts, and she rubs, expecting blood and gore, a thick wound from an equally thick blade, but the stab isn't wet, or bleeding. It isn't even open. Jess pulls up her shirt frantically to see the wound.

It looks days old.

Cauterized almost.

How...?

As if _seeing_ it reminds her nervous system that trauma did, in fact, just happen, pain slowly begins to trek up her body, her chest, throat, then settling in the back of her skull. Her heart makes a weird twisting thing in her chest, as if jumping in surprise, before pumping in a normal rhythm again.

Jess releases a hiss of pain, dropping the blade and brushing her fingers over the wound. She flinches, and gasps. "Ow." She whispers, but her tone is surprised. Like the fact it hurts is something to wonder over.

 _You just got stabbed,_ a pragmatic part of her points out. _Of course it's going to hurt._

Jess looks up.

Cas is still standing in front of the Winchesters, eyes wide and disgust painted into every feature of his face. Dean is looking back at her, clearly as confused as she feels. Sam only seems relieved. Maybe a little sick.

Jess drops her shirt, and kneels down, picking up the blade again. Her blood is pooling in the carpet, staining it. She grimaces to herself, wondering how much that will add to their motel bill, then realizes that's a stupid thing to be concerned about right now.

Jess swallows, breathes out, then blinks. Things are slowly sinking in. Settling, like ripples in a pool evening out.

Jess expels air sharply, and her hands are shaking as she stares up at the three men. She brandishes the weapon, ignoring the slight tingle it leaves on her skin. Then she swears heavily and points the blade at them. The blade that should have left her huddled on the floor, crying. But it didn't.

"What the heck just happened?"

Sam and Dean share a look.

"Someone explain, now, or this is going into someone else's chest."

Cas growls low in his throat at the suggestion, "Keep your filthy blood away from them." The center of his pupils flares white, that aura pouring into the room again.

_Holy—_

Jess drops the blade, scrambling back towards the wall and letting out a startled sound. It feels like a squeak, and is probably as impressive as one.

"Sam," she whispers desperately.

Her fiancé looks pained, making a move for her, but is stopped when Cas rests a hand flat against his chest again. Frustration pours through her, raw. It's awful because it takes the remaining dregs of shock away, but wonderful because it's something beyond the strange, numbing apathy. What is so wrong with her that Cas won't let them _approach_ her?

Dean rests a hand on Cas's shoulder, and that weird iris flare dies almost instantly, "Cas," the older Winchester says softly. Then, louder, "It's Jessica, Cas, it's really her, I promise. We've checked and everything. This isn't our first rodeo. Just…maybe don't..."

"I _know_ it is Jessica Moore. That's not the point." Cas grits.

"Then what _is?"_ Sam asks, sounding lost and looking the part, "Please, Cas,"

Something in Cas' expression breaks at the voice and he inhales slowly, then blows it out. "Fine. But not until I clean up the blood." He moves forward, then adds sharply when the brothers shift slightly, "Don't move from that spot."

They stop.

Jess watches him approach with growing wariness, her entire body clenching and aching at the proximity. He didn't even stop to question her, to even ask, just walked in and stabbed her. Like he was just ordering a sandwich. Even if it wasn't fatal, it _hurt,_ and his behavior makes something in her squirm.

Cas kneels down in front of the blood, waving a hand over the carpet to clean it. He staggers a little when he's done, something in his face pinching. Grabbing his blade, Cas seems to ignore as everyone else in the room tenses. He runs his fingers across the silver and where he touches blood washes off, going...somewhere. When he's done, there isn't even any evidence that he stabbed her at all.

None except the faint, bruise-like pain in her stomach.

"Okay, you good now?" Dean calls.

Cas barely contains a scowl, then shoves the blade inside his trenchcoat. The weight of it doesn't cause the coat to sag, almost as if it vanished completely. But that's ridiculous, because weapons don't just vanish. Except this man's eyes can glow, so maybe it does. Nothing about this follows the rules of physics she was taught.

She's going to be sick.

Cas rises up to his full height, then glances at the Winchesters, but doesn't put his back to her. He sees her as a threat, she realizes, and isn't sure whether to laugh or cry. What does he think she's going to _do,_ honestly? Claw his neck open and drink? She's not a vampire. At least, as far as she's aware.

Jess bites on the inside of her cheek, pushing her lips together as her eyes burn. She's not going to cry. She's not a child. Desperately, she pinches the skin above her ribs, but it doesn't help. Her entire body is trembling.

Sam rocks on his feet for a moment, then moves towards her, and is met with no resistance from Cas, even if the trenchcoated man's eyes follow him like Sam is walking towards an armed bomb. There's a tenseness in his shoulders that doesn't ease, even when he cups her face, eyes wet. She releases a shuddering breath and collapses against him. He catches her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders desperately.

His other hand feels the back of her shirt, searching for blood she realizes.

She should probably reassure him, but it's all she can do not to dissolve into tears.

"You're okay," Sam whispers, resting his chin on the top of her head, stroking her hair, "you're okay."

"No, she's not," Cas says flatly. Jess shudders, feeling sick.

Jess can't see Sam's expression, but imagines it isn't a pretty one by how Cas's eyes squint. Jess breathes out shakily. "Why did you...?" she asks, addressing Cas. "What did I…?"

Beyond the whole back-from-the-dead thing. Maybe it _is_ that thing.

Cas closes his eyes for a moment and he gives a soft shake of his head. The human gesture seems somehow off on him.

"Cas?" Dean pushes, stepping closer, "Cas, you've gotta say something, man."

"You don't want to know," Cas responds, opening his eyes and pinning them on Jess. She tries not to shrivel under them, but there was something in her chest, _scraping at her ribcage_ and he put it there. He tried to kill her and only seems disappointed that it failed.

"You just stabbed my fiancée," Sam makes a noise in the back of his throat, "We deserve to know why."

"She's unharmed," Cas sounds almost flippant.

"You tried to kill her!"

"Unsuccessfully."

" _Cas."_ That one is from Dean, who has crossed the distance between himself and the otherworldly man and grabbed him by the shoulders. Gripping both of them tightly, he shakes the dark haired man roughly once. "Talk. Now."

"Dean, I—"

Dean gives him a look that flattens out all protest. Cas pulls away. He's not facing her, so she can't gauge his expression, and that doesn't feel her with a great deal of comfort. "Fine." Cas jerks a hand out towards her, accusatory, "She is the epicenter of impending disaster."

It's not funny, but a startled snort escapes her, "I'm sorry, _what?"_

Cas won't look at her, ignoring her words, "She is infected with one of the most powerful demon viruses known to hell."

A rush of cold washes up from her spine.

...What?

A demon...what?

"She's…" Sam repeats, but falters. His grip on her has gone lax.

Dean turns to face her, and his eyes are wide with dawning horror. He whispers something Jess is pretty sure is an expletive, then says in a tone that's barely louder than that, " _Croatoan?_ " he turns to face Cas, who gives a slight tilt of his head forward in a nod. Jess feels her brow draw together. What does the Roanoke Colony have to do with any of this?

"No, we—Sam," Dean sounds like he's being strangled. He backs up a step from her, but she doesn't think it's a conscious decision. " _Sam_ —"

"No."

"Dude, this isn't some sort of _cold."_

"I'm immune." Sam says quickly, and _what?_ "Remember?"

Croatoan? Demon virus? Croatoan... _is_ a demon virus?

"Man, she's not Jessica," Dean sounds like he's trying to be angry, but it's failing. Honestly, he only seems like he's about to throw up. "Sam, she's so far from Jess that it's laughable. Cas stabbed her and she barely bled. She's not human anymore, I don't know what she is."

 _That_ hits like a punch to the gut, finally something she can register. Something that makes sense, even if it aches.

Not human.

Yes, intellectually, she's known since she woke up that the possibility was there, but it's different hearing it. Like speaking it outloud forces it to be true instead of an interesting contemplation. Jess sputters, making a noise that sounds a little like she's gagging.

"I don't care!"

"Sam!"

Demon virus. Not human. She can't breathe. She needs to leave.

"We can't—

Fight or flight registers, and Jess, coward she is, flees.

She ducks underneath Sam's lax grip, panting, and books it for the bathroom. No one tries to stop her. Cas was closest and seems disgusted at the thought of touching her. She slams the door shut, then sinks against the wood and stares into the dark.

The only light is coming from underneath the door in a thin sliver.

She tugs her knees up to her chest and frantically breathes in and out, her heart pounding against her ears. She could have ran for the exit. She should have. Saved them all the trouble.

She's not...she just got stabbed. She's a virus. She's...

She should leave and ask questions. She should leave and confront this like an adult. She shouldn't be hiding. She should. Should.

Should make sure they won't book it while she's cowering in here. She wants to believe they wouldn't, but Cas and Dean were looking at her like she'd just murdered a child. She was too afraid to look at Sam when she ran. Her fist clenches, and her engagement ring digs into her fingers.

 _Crash and burn,_ the words seem mocking, not comforting.

Not human. Demon virus.

Her old life is flowing out from between her fingertips. It has since she woke up and dragged herself to that road. Stanford is over. Marriage is over. Kids. Her family. Everything is over. Jess slips a hand up her shirt, feeling for the cauterized wound, bitter.

There's nothing there.

_No._

Jess flails, and yanks her shirt up, pressing her palm flat against the place she can still feel phantom blade grinding against her bones, but she's met with smooth skin. A frantic, hissing noise escapes her throat. She pinches the skin as best she's able, trying to draw something up to remind her where the blade pierced her.

It stings, but about as much as the initial stab did.

Jess curses under her breath, trying not to cry. Her chest heaves and she has to bite down harshly on the back of her hand to keep her face dry. Her hands are shaking, trembling violently without her permission or ability to stop.

_This can't be happening. What is wrong with me?_

How did she get infected with a demon virus when she's never even been _near_ a demon before? Was it something she had before or after she came back? Is there any way to tell? ...Does she even _want_ to know?

The rumble of voices outside of the bathroom catches her attention, and Jess grasps desperately for them in an attempt to focus on something else beyond her own thoughts. They're muffled, but enough that she can't pick out most of the words. Stimulation. Any beyond her own. She grapples for it like a drowning man.

"—you were _dating_ a freakin' time bomb!" Dean is saying harshly. "That just happened to slip your notice?"

"How would I have even known to look for that? It's not like Dad exactly taught us how to test for Croatoan." Sam retorts, voice equally barbed. "Jess isn't—isn't that. She can't be. I'll find a way to fix it. Cure her. There has to be some way. We're not going to kill her, Dean!"

The sentiment is sweet, but Jess privately wonders if it's deserved. _Demon virus._ A sudden, sickening thought strikes her—is it...is it _contagious?_ Is that why Cas was so insistent that they not touch her?

Dean makes an indignant noise.

"Even if we wanted to, I don't think we can," Cas murmurs. His voice is a little hard to pick out through the wood, the deep baritone wanting to become a rumble of background noise. "She's a Carrier, she's meant to be indestructible. My blade and many others will do little."

What?

There's a lapse of silence, like the Winchesters are asking themselves the same silent question.

"She's immortal?" Dean says finally, his tone is something she can't place. If she'd known him for longer, maybe, but not now. "She's a freakin _immortal_ Croat? Well, that's just...awesome." Dean waits for a moment, then asks, "How long before she Hulks out?"

"She'll...I don't understand that reference." Cas says.

"He means—he means how long do we have before she...turns," Sam says the words like he has to pull every syllable from behind his teeth.

Turn? Turns into _what?_

"She wont—she's a Carrier, not...you don't know much about this virus, do you?" Cas asks.

"Yeah, no—I mean, places that get infected kind of have a habit of, y'know, disappearing." Dean answers with some bite.

So this does have to do with the Roanoke Colony.

Great.

It's not like that's an centuries-old unsolved mystery.

"Dean," Sam sighs.

"It's a closely guarded secret by demons, primarily by the princes of hell, which is why an outbreak hasn't been seen for decades. But Lucifer would know how to raise a Carrier, and he would want every weapon at his disposal to cripple Earth." Cas explains. Half of that doesn't make sense to her. No—most of it.

The Devil. What the...?

"Carrier?" Sam echoes, but sounds like he didn't understand half of what was said either, which makes her feel a little better.

"The first of the infected. They never show symptoms. They won't. Their only purpose is to spread the virus. And when the infected have razed enough destruction, _they_ lead the people away and consume them. We don't know why."

Consume...as in, like, _eat?_

That's _her?_ Jess bites on the back of her hand again.

"But it's a ritual that's been followed ceaselessly. She's going to infect you, then leave nothing of you behind. There is no break in the pattern. When she infects her first victim, she won't stop. So please— _please_ leave her here and run as far as you can in the direction. Jessica Moore's soul was dropped from heaven. It landed deformed."

Heaven. Dropped. 'Cause, y'know, that's just...how on earth could he know that?

Jess bites on her lower lip and doesn't move, afraid that if she does she'll break down into more sobs. She swallows thickly, breathing out through her nose. Clenches her hand around the skin of her stomach harder. There's no wound. Because she's a Carrier. Infected with the demon virus that she's beginning to think doesn't just leave you with a bad cough.

They're going to leave her here.

They _should._

"No," Sam says. There's a shuffle of footsteps, moving closer towards the door. Jess all but flings herself away from it, desperate to keep them from her. Dean protests behind him, but the door makes a clicking noise like a key got stuck, but when the bathroom door opens, Sam's yanking something from the lock. Lockpicks, she thinks frantically.

She locked the door? She doesn't have a memory of that. Everything is jumping.

She meets Sam's eyes with wild ones. His are hard. Almost dead.

"Sam—" Cas says.

Sam walks towards her and hauls her up to her feet without a word, gentle for all his mannerism would suggest it should be otherwise. He leads her from the bathroom with a hand on her arm, ignoring the flaring words around him, grabs the duffel he dumped at the base of the bed last night, Jess's backpack, and starts for the motel door.

She feels a little like a sheep being herded away from the jaws of hungry wolves. Glancing at Cas's face only solidifies that.

Maybe she should protest. (Does she want to?) She doesn't.

Dean throws himself in front of them, "Sammy, please. Just, let's not—I never said that we'd leave her here, I just, she's a Croat, man, and we can't..."

Sam's voice is so lifeless it scares her. "I'm going to find a cure. Try to stop me and you'll regret it."

Dean looks at him, between them.

Sam pulls Jess towards the door.

She should say something, confirm that she agrees. She doesn't.

"Sam," Dean tries, a little softer.

Sam flips him a rude gesture, yanking the motel door open with more force than necessary. Jess is pushed out, stumbling over her stiff feet. Sam starts to follow before stopping, rigid. Jess twists, looking back at Dean who has grabbed his younger brother's shoulder. "Don't make me do this," Sam whispers, still toneless. Defeated. His grip around Jess's hand tightens, "Please, Dean,"

"Sammy, just...just sit still for a second, okay?"

"I'm not abandoning my fiancée."

"I never—" Dean releases a heavy breath, "Okay. _Okay._ Just. We'll figure something out. I promise. But we'll do that _together."_

"With Jess."

"With Jess," Dean assures.

 _Why?_ Jess wants to protest, but it feels like something took her voice.

Sam sags, and turns back to the door. Jess follows him, because their hands are still connected. Jess can see Cas still in the room, watching the entire exchange. He's too far away for Jess to see his expression, and she's not sure she wants to.

Jess steps inside the room.

It feels like she leaves something behind. She doesn't know what, only that she misses it when it's gone.

000o000

"...an actual…and the apocalypse is actually happening. Right now. The Devil is out and about and..." she leans back against the chair, rubbing at her forehead. _Ah,_ a distant part of her hums, _that would explain some things._ But angels. And the freakin' biblical apocalypse. Because yeah. Sure. This is her life now.

Funny. A few weeks ago—four years—one of her biggest problems was figuring out how to politely turn down her grandmother's request that she and Sam join her for Thanksgiving. Now?

Sam rubs his hands together from where he's seated across the bed from her, like he's cold. "Jess?"

She shakes her head. "Just...give me a minute."

Her gaze flits to Castiel again, who is standing beside the bed where Sam and Dean are seated side-by-side. The sight of all three of them together looks oddly fitting, as if Cas was a piece she didn't realize she needed to have there. The Doomsday Trio, her mind supplies frantically, hysterically, and Jess releases a snort.

It makes her sound insane.

She doesn't care.

She's a demon virus bomb. There's not much lower she can sink today.

And Cas is an angel. Angel. Like heaven. Like—wings. Like the wings she saw. The eyes. And the rush of power. Wait—Cas. No one gave her a full name. Do they mean Cas as in, like...Cassiel? Who gave a freakin archangel a _nickname!?_

Jess feels her face blanch, she looks at Cas. "Cas."

Cas cocks his head a little, almost like a bird. He says nothing, eyes hard as they pin onto her. The weight of his gaze makes her feel small and deplorable.

Jess closes her eyes, shakes her head. Angel. _Angel?_ "Cassiel?" Sam makes a noise, like he wants to correct her, "Cassiel is the angel of tears. Presides over the death of kings." When she opens her eyes, Sam is staring at her strangely. Dean looks confused. Jess's lips pinch. She circles back, round and round in these circles they've gone. "You know an angel."

Sam runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah, uh. And it's actually Cas _ti_ el, not Cassie...nevermind."

Oh. Of course. Because that slight alteration in pronunciation _means so much!_

"I'm not familiar with any angels named Cassiel," Cas _ti_ el says after a moment, like they're just discussing baseball teams and not heaven.

Jess leans back in the chair, drumming her fingers across the tabletop, her knee, then the tabletop again, trying to think. Her entire world has been broken and reconstructed today, and she longs for the innocence of yesterday. When she was just an undead thing come back without a purpose. Without carrying a virus in her that makes people turn rabid. _A human in a predatory state,_ Castiel had said. He won't get closer than ten feet to her, and the guarded clench of his shoulders every time Sam or Dean break that distance suggests he'd like to grab them both and run.

Because she's infected. Even if she doesn't feel the part. But Castiel can smell infection. Apparently Dean had summoned him, however that works, outside to talk, but the moment Castiel landed, he smelled her. Hence, the stabbing.

Jess releases a long, drawn out breath, then rubs at her forehead. "So you think that the Devil raised me?" she clarifies, recalling their earlier conversation and the connection, "From the dead?"

A reluctant nod from Dean, but Sam's eyes flit away like he's guilty.

"Well," Jess makes a slight face, "I guess that would explain the cloak and daggers you two were doing." She sighs again. She's done a lot of that. She thinks maybe, when she's not as emotionally exhausted, she'll register this properly and freak out. But for now, she got all her hysteria out already. She doesn't know if she's capable of anything else beyond a tired hand flopping.

A thought occurs. "But why _me?_ The Devil could've used thousands of people. Why did he have to raise _me_ from the dead to do it?"

She's looking at the Winchesters, but Castiel frowns and answers, "I'm unaware. As I said before, what we know about Croatoan is limited. The demon who created it hasn't been seen since the Roanoke colony in your late sixteenth century. He was exorcised by—Sam, are you alright?"

Jess flicks her gaze to her fiancé. His hands are clenched around his knees, face pale, but eyes wide and sickened.

"Sam?" Dean asks as Jess opens her mouth to do so.

"It's me," Sam whispers, gaze lifting somewhere above her head. "He did it for me. To earn my _favor,"_ the last word is an attempted snarl, but only sounds frantic.

Dean's head tilts up. Castiel frowns.

"Who? The...Devil?" Jess clarifies, looking between the three of them. No one confirms it, so she just assumes she's right. "The...cause you're the vessel. Right." Jess rubs her forehead harder, like if she digs to her brain through the skin the answers will be there. Great. Anything else the day would like to throw in? Croatoan virus, check. Attempted murder, check. Raised from death for her boyfriend, check.

Sam looks up at her, "Jess, I'm so sorry. This is my fault, if I hadn't…if I wasn't..."

"Sam," Jess shakes her head, closing her eyes.

"He knew I would...he just...it…"

"Baby," Jess reaches forward and rests her hands on his, ignoring the full body flinch that Castiel does off to her right. "Sam—look at me, baby," his dark eyes slowly lift to her, "this isn't your fault. No—it's not. You couldn't have had any idea that he was going to do this."

It's not like he asked. Not that she knows of, and she has her doubts that her fiancé would ask anything from the _Devil._

Sam squeezes his eyes shut and takes her wrists, "Even if I had…" his voice is deathly quiet, like he has to force the words out. "I don't know...I don't think that I would have stopped him."

And that admission is sweet.

But utterly terrifies her.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: End of August(?), early September-ish.


End file.
